


une petite mort

by tokyonightskies



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Attempted Rape, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Moral Ambiguity, Murder, serial killers!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 19:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1277842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the room was fit for two,</p>
<p>the bed was left in ruins,</p>
<p>the neighbor was knocking, yeah.</p>
<p>but no one would let him in.</p>
<p>~a little death; the neighborhood</p>
<p>Steve & Thor are homocidal lover in motel suites, trading bloody kisses like they're lipstick stains and leaving people breath/less/.</p>
            </blockquote>





	une petite mort

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by: A Little Death - the Neighborhood | Do I Wanna Know - Arctic Monkeys | Prince's - Oscar and the Wolf | Later - Balthazar 
> 
> I should probably make a playlist out of this, haha.

_the room was fit for two,_

_the bed was left in **ruins** ,_

_the neighbor was knocking,_ yeah.

_but no one would let him in._

~a little death; the neighborhood

.

.

.

He stares blankly at his reflection in the mirror and doesn't recognize who he's seeing there, just another stranger with his cheekbones, jaw line and laughter lines. It's the scent of Steve's leather jacket that drums a steady sense of familiarity through his veins along how the sleeves fit snuggly around his muscular arms and the material falls around his waist. There's a pack of Lucky Strike's on the sink, next to a plastic cup with their toothbrushes and an eyeliner pencil. Like Therapy sang on the radio a couple of hours ago when he was out shopping for the proper equipment,  _there's a party at Lake Cove. It'll be much easier if I drove._

There's a crack in the glass, cutting across this stranger's face, splitting left from right in one fractured line. It leaves him with two unsymmetrical halves. Thor merely smirks and adjusts his simple black singlet, pats his pockets - _lighter_ ,  burner  _cell phone_ , roll of cheese wire,  _wallet with the_  fake _ID_ , ** _check_** _.-_ and dabs a whiff of Hugo Boss against his jugular. He's trimmed his beard, pulled his unruly hair in a sloppy pony tail and put on his favorite boots. Once he's stuffed his pack of cigarettes into the back pockets of his jeans, he makes his way to the main suite, closing the bathroom door behind him with a soft  _click_.

"You look like you're going to catch something _big_ , tonight." Steve remarks from his spot on the queen-sized bed. The sheets are too honeymoon; white with oriental flowers and frills, cushions the same color as the blossoms and there were Godiva chocolates too.

_they threw them out with the_ **_trash_ ** _._

He answers slyly, "I'm an optimist at heart, love." & he hasn't spend an entire half an hour preening for a negligent shot in the dark kill.

"I know, that's why I've resorted to being the pragmatic." Steve replies sweetly,  _dimples and white straight teeth._  Like the graves at a military cemetery if Thor wants to be ironic.

They met each other a couple of years back on a the forum of a Dexter fan site where they both gave entertaining and  _deadly_ accurate critiques on several problematic killings broadcasted in the series. Someone jokingly/or not/ suggested they should meet up to have a creepy serial killer trivia stand-off. Thor initiated, Steve planned, and so a precedent had been set. The attraction was instantaneous; so alike in demeanor and features yet so excitedly foreign in many aspects. //Thor prefers up-close and personal; blood on his palms and under his fingernails; wants to catalogue the little details like a twitch of the eyebrow or the drop of a jaw. Steve is more cool-headed, studies routines and characteristics, knows when and where and how to strike without drawing too much attention. He's more picky when it comes to his fix, develops a pattern. It drives Thor _insane_ sometimes.//

"We should get going." He utters as he crawls over to the foot of the bed to gather his watch and his dog tags - Bucky's dog tags, Thor amends in his mind. They shimmer silver under the bright lighting, just another trick of the eye.

_once they're in front of the hotel, thor memorizes the license plate of the rental car,_ **_just in case_ ** _._

They share a long-lasting look before Steve slides into the passenger's seat. He buries his nose in the collar of the leather jacket-smells Steve Rogers, Hugo Boss and the city air, smiles like crazy and gets inside the Volkswagen as well. Indie Rock fills the car with clever innuendo's and repetitive bass lines. His lover lights a cigarette out of boredom and they pass it back and forth 'til he throws it out of the rolled down window. Smoke pricks at his eyes, it's a strangely numbing feeling and snuffs out the heightened sense of anticipation. His tongue instinctively sweeps over his dry lips and he irrationally wants Steve's to do it instead.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in the seat, with half-lidded eyes and a ghost of a smile. He's wearing that plaid button-up from three years ago, the one with the blood stain they can't get out on the right sleeve, that's why he rolls them up high now. Scars from Iraqi battlefields decorate the smooth expanse of his arms, untended scratches developed into festering infections and a healed shot wound reduced to a puddle of stark white tissue. Just the sight is enough to make his throat dry and itchy and downright  _uncomfortable,_ which he always considered troubling since he could stomach investigating the crime scenes he caused. 

Thumping dupstep greets them and it's almost as if the earth's trembling along the entwining bass levels. It resounds in the hollow of their chests like heavy stones tumbling. Steve turns off the radio as Thor parks their rental at a reasonable distance of the party. They're both quiet when Steve ruffles his blond hair in the rearview mirror and recites their phone numbers in a hushed, concentrated voice. His hand is holding Thor's, cool like his temper and coarse from hardship.

"Smoke another one and wait for my cue inside." He orders, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the car door. His cheeks are blotted red from the heat. 

Sometimes Thor wonders if Steve ever feels jitters for a gig like this or if his years in the military stomped those delightful little sparks out like a cigarette butt.  _ **Whatever**_. He knows what Steve thinks  & feels & feels like, he's seen the cold-blooded man unbundle into a miserable bunch of limbs and heartache and he's seen those baby blues narrow at the thrill of the kill. They're all wearing different skins and customs with one goal in mind.

_batman was wrong,_ **_y'know._ ** _about killing at least._

Inside equals  _Inferno_. There is so much noise, chattering and stomping and deafening music and the hangar's open so the wind gushes inside to cool sweat-slicked skin. And Steve's nostrils are flooded with all sorts of smell, perspiration being the most overpowering, but there's eau de cologne and sickeningly sweet perfume and spilt cocktails as well as petroleum and steel. He buries his nose in the crook of his elbow for a moment, tries to gather his wit and pushes onwards to the makeshift bar, manned by androgynous ravers in neon colors and fishnet shirts.

He orders a Sprite and the bartender shoots him an odd  _almost_ accusing look. Next to him is a girl barely out of her teens taking tequila shots with a couple of friends. They're high on LSD and Steve wonders if these are the kind of people Dugan would've taken that bullet for, if Bucky would've pushed  _them_ out of the way, if Jones would've thrown himself on that mortar to save  _them._ He downs his soda and tastes vodka instead. Behind the counter that sneaky little brat is  ** _howling_** , facial piercings changing colors under fluorescent lights. It makes. his. blood. boil.

Instead he plays it off, crumpling the red Dixie cup in his hand and putting the disfigured plastic back on the bar. He watches people dance for a while, touch and kiss. It's a show he's seen a couple of times before, other settings and other clothes, but the principle's the same. Soon a girl with dreadlocks stumbles to his side, a larger man glued to her back. He's got this gleeful smile when he orders them a round of drinks. Steve props his elbow on the counter and pretends to be disinterested in the whole scene. The girl's giggling, or at least he assumes she is, it's sort of  _hard_ to hear anything in this hellhole - obtrusive sounds and human-made predators  _bother_ him, brings back too many _memories_ he aims to appear forgotten. Not in front of Thor, though. Thor  _knows_ and  _assumes_ ** _correctly_** and  _reads_ him like an open book. 

His shoulders sag when he spots Thor making his way through the throng of people, swaying and swirling. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watches the guy put a teeny tiny capsules in the girl's plastic shot glass. It dissolves and changes the liquid blue. Steve rolls his eyes at the sheer  _stupidity_ this guy displays. 

But the girl is still giggling, amphetamine anxious and delirious. She probably thinks it's blue  _curaçao_ or a cocktail or something. Her teeth stand in contrast to her darker skin when she smiles widely as he thrusts the cup in her open hand. She thanks him with a nod and takes a sip, her bottom lip starts to quiver violently and her hand slips from the counter top to her side. Steve turns away from the two for a moment, actively seeking out Thor in the crowd. His golden hair is flashing fuchsia to filtered blue underneath the crudely put-up lighting system. They regard each other for a few seconds and all sound falls away, falls  _dead silent_. 

He can hear his heart beating between his ears. The corners of his mouth twitch up into a feral smile instantaneously.  _man-made predators_ ** _indeed_** _._ Smoke blasts from the two generators in the upper corners, curls between black-lighted bodies and coils in the crooks of their elbows and bent knees. Is it the apotheosis of the song already? 

They're gone and Thor's gone and Steve gets  _going_. Pushes himself off the bar, pulls at the left sleeve of his shirt, disappears into the narrow corridor to the back exit, barely acknowledges the green blinking emergency exit sign, passes through, adds to his step, gains momentum, rounds the corner and 'accidentally' bumps against the _idiot_.

"Sorry 'bout that, buddy. Didn't see you there.." He apologizes, laid-back tone, hands shoved down the pockets of his blue jeans.

The girl looks worse for wear, bravely keeping her deep brown eyes open. _Bucky_ would've taken a bullet for this girl,  _he_ would've taken the bullet for a girl like this. She's mumbling that she wants to go home, clinging to the guy's arm and staring at a spot behind Steve's shoulder. 

"Yeah, sure dude.  _Let's_ ** _go_** _,_ com'on.." The guy says, pulling at the poor thing to keep moving. She almost trips over her own feet in those bleached converse sneakers.

Steve doesn't budge, instead crosses his arms in front of his chest. He replies matter-of-factly, "I think she'd rather sleep."

"Yeah, she'll have enough time to do that  _after_. Listen, fuck off okay? I ain't got time for this shit. Com'on  _bitch_ , keep movin'." He's rambling, trying to push her forwards. He's nervous, bubbling with uncontained energy.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Steve asks, rubbing his wrist self-consciously, trying to play it cool.

He rolls his eyes and snaps, "What the fuck, dude?! Just leave  _us_ alone, okay?!"

"Did you know standard roofies color drinks blue?" He tries to keep the smirk out of his voice, doesn't quite succeed. 

The girl starts to cry, burying her nose in the palm of her hand. Her fingernails are a bright orange, they match her skirt. Steve takes a step forwards, calmly disentangles the couple's arms and keeps a good grip on the girl. The guy's turned to stone, shell-shocked and unblinking. His face is ashen, a beacon in the darkness of the alleyway. If he's smart he turns and runs to the street at the opposite side.

_they never quite_ ** _are,_** _probably think they have to prove_ something _._

Steve hushes the wailing girl, calls her sweetheart and promises her things will be okay. Her dreadlocks have ribbons entwined in the hairs, he says they suit her. The guy gets angry and bounces forwards, fists raised and mouth open wide.

"Who the _fuck_ do you think you are, huh?!" He shouts, his voice bouldering through the back-alley like a battering ram.

They could've very well been on a cross-road instead of a main street's two-way vein.

"I wanna sleep." The girl sniffles, leaning into Steve's frame, face-first against his chest.

He pets the back of her head sweetly, kindly, and whispers suggestively, "Just listen to me, _honey_. I'm gonna drop you off in a cab and then you can close your eyes, alright?"

"The _ **hell**_ you are!"

Steve sees something moving in the shadows, witnesses a glimpse of silver-shining thread and lightly shakes his head. Just as the guy wants to pounce on him, two handle-holding hands appear from the darkness, attached to arms decked in leather, attached to a form he knows _all too_ ** _well_** _._ Thor ensnares the guy and wraps the cheese wire tightly around his neck, so tight he can't breathe, so sharp his jugular bursts. He can't scream due to the external pressure on his throat and he's left grasping aimlessly until his posture goes slack.

Blood squirts on Thor's hands, coats the guy's collar and shirt, splatters onto the floor. The girl's pressed against Steve and he forcefully grounds her to his strong shoulder to avoid her watching the shuddering, convulsing _idiot_  drop to the stone-cold ground. They watch each other for a beat or two, simply scanning each other's faces in the orange blinking-unblinking light, before Steve nods slowly and retreats towards the street with the girl in his arms.

"What's your name?" Thor breaks the silence, blood still dripping from his thumbs and from the cheese wire thread.

She groans lowly, eyes squeezed shut. Until, "Mathilda.."  

Smiling, Steve murmurs, "That's a lovely name, Mathilda."

"Can I.. Sleep, now?" 

"Of course, rest well, Mathilda." Thor says, his voice softened by the ongoing distance being placed between them. His gaze rests upon their retreating figures.

A few minutes pass and Thor dares not move, dares not grab for his cigarettes because he might wipe blood on Steve's beautiful leather jacket. He takes a wide step over the guy's body, still somewhat unsurely holding the wooden handles of his weapon, and waits for his lover, leaning against the brick wall. Steve returns soon enough, takes his blue&white plaid shirt off and rolls the cheese wire into the cloth.

_red, white & blue_, oh how Thor  _loves_ those colors on his soldier. He holds the shirt out for the other so he can clean his hands. Once they're connected through blood and steel and fabric, Steve leans in and Thor acquiesces by pressing their mouths together. They kiss, nip at lips and tips of tongues, push into each other with a heightened sense of urgency. 

When they break apart, Thor asks quietly, "She will not remember anything, will she?"

He hums and shakes his head in response, bundles his bloodied shirt into a ball and holds the clothing article to his chest. And then, "We should go, now. The longer we're here, the more we risk expo-.." Thor interrupts him with another long kiss before tugging at his lover's tank top. 

They move towards the street, leaving the body with its open throat and puddle of blood and morsels of shred meat in its sanctuary of buzzing light, moths and shadows. In their stomachs the giddiness of the kill resonates and the soldier has to bite his tongue to keep a hollow laugh from escaping. Thor has his palm heavily on his lower back and he wants skin-to-skin contact. 

Do two wrongs make a right? - They're in the car with no recollection of where and how, only the blurriness of concrete and street lanterns, the smell of Hugo Boss and death and how they're not mutually exclusive. Thor rolls down the window, lets cold air flood the inside of the car and leans his head back against the seat's rest. The key hasn't been turned yet, but the radio's on. 

"I need you." Steve breathes out.

Thor breathes in.

" _They would've been proud of you_."

Nobody says a word after that, the mood has shifted suddenly and Steve wants him more than  ** _ever_**. He's got a bloody shirt and a murder weapon on his lap but he's mindful to buckle his seatbelt. They're holding hands until Thor lets go to start the Volkswagen into action.  _Easy_ by the Commodores is playing and the engine seems to fall into the laid-back rhythm. 

"Can I have a cigarette?" Steve asks, watching the scenery flit by through the window. His forehead rests against the cool glass.

Flakes of blood decorate Thor's knuckles but he still seems mindful of the condition of Steve's jacket for he only drags the pack out by his fingertips. Not that they're much cleaner, but it's the thought. that  _counts_. He gives his lover another long-lasting look as he opens the carton and pushes it into the other blonde's direction.

Steve's mouth cracks into a grin and he taunts, "I thought police officers had better traffic control."

"My love, I am a master at driving without a conscious." He merely replies, smiling back.

The cigarette ends up remaining unlit, the filter is bitten to bits. Neither says a  _goddamned_ thing, because they're both thinking of  **1** thing.

And as soon as the car is parked and they're pawing at each other like ( _man-made_ ) predators, up the stairs of the motel, nearly falling off the railing when Thor presses Steve against the icy steel and marks his neck with the sharp of his teeth. Almost the shirt is dropped onto the hallway floor, but the soldier catches it automatically and holds it securely in one hand while the other is too busy sneaking its way underneath Thor's black singlet. His back hits their room's door and he's caged between two strong arms and he's staring straight into stormy eyes. Thor's eyebrows are angled, drawn high in concentration. 

There are no  _i love you's_ because words are tools for their little black&white lies. Who needs some Hollywood glam when they're a low-budget horror movie? Steve tilts his head back, exposes his throat and closes his eyes. Plush lips covet his pale flesh. 

_they stain those awful sheets_ **_with cum & lube & brownish specks of dried blood._ **

Morning comes and casts sunlight through the blinds. They're on the mattress in the nude with the blankets in a pile on the floor. The shirt's in a plastic bag which is planned to be set on fire at night. The cheese wire is sneaked into Thor's sports' bag, cleaned and rolled into a towel. Outside, the cleaning ladies are wildly gossiping between contraband cigarettes about them. 

\-- _Lovely boys_ ,  _so polite too._ I hope they'll go swimming today, hehe.  _Oh, Marcy, you're hopeless_. Com'on, I bet they're ripped. Just think of those chests and their asses. Their asses, Linda.  _Shut up! We still need to do o'five._ I'd rather do them, y'know. --

Steve chortles against Thor's shoulder, leaves a dry kiss and rolls onto his back. 

"You think Mathilda has arrived at her home safely, Steve?" Thor wonders aloud, comfortable in the chilly room.

He stretches his arms above his head and drops his head onto the too-fluffy pillow. 

"We protected her, like we should." His soldier sounds so resolute, so firm and sure.

Thor closes his eyes again, feels the wooden handles in his hands again, sees the alleyway and Steve staring at him as he holds the gaze and hears his own heart hammering. It's life that's rushing through his veins as that same _life_ had rushed out of that guy. And it should bother him that he doesn't even know what that guy did wrong or was about to do wrong. He guessed, of course, but he had instinctively trusted Steve's sense of judgment.

_he wasn't lying when he said_ **_they would've been proud_ ** _._

And in some wicked sense, Thor's proud of Steve too and he trusts him even though they share _senseless secrets._ It's in his lover's posture, in his current vulnerability, that Thor knows the feeling is reciprocated.

Men like them thrive on small comforts.

.

.


End file.
